


creative diplomacy

by kaermorons



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bottom Din Djarin, Dom/sub Undertones, Feminization, King Boba Fett, M/M, Master/Slave, Public Sex, Spoilers for Season 2 finale, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Upon the throne sits a king, and upon the king sits a princess.Tattooine gets weirder every day.Contains Spoilers for Mandalorian Season 2
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 23
Kudos: 535





	creative diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense I was horny and they didn’t have to go that hard in that post-credits scene.
> 
> Many thanks to FrostFire82 for typo-wrangling!!!

The dignitary had been speaking for little over an hour. Truth be told, most of the court had tuned him out after the first five minutes, but the extended rambling from the man held a panicked edge to it, which was amusing. He obviously thought the only thing keeping him alive was his ability to speak.

This was untrue.

The only thing keeping the dignitary alive was that the king on the throne was far too distracted by the hot mouth around his prick, the wet tongue sliding around the head with practiced ease. One of the king’s hands was resting atop his slave’s veil, and the other was held in a relaxed fist on the arm of the throne, a chain of dark silver wrapped around his hand. The helmet, and it’s black-as-pitch visor, held no tilt to it, no indication where his eyes were looking, but his attention was on the slave, like it always was.

For now, the whore was cockwarming, because the king was bored. The slave had been at his task for more than a half-hour, and wasn’t showing any signs of stopping. Distractingly dressed in a skimpy draping of fine silks and chain-bound garments, the hard stone dais the throne sat upon didn't seem to bother him. He kept dutifully bobbing his head on the king’s prick, like they were the only ones in the room.

The dignitary was trying his hardest not to look. Truth be told, in Mos Espa, where he was from, he was used to a bit more modesty, and wasn’t used to actually seeing slaves, except as barely-peripheral blurs of gray and brown roughspun cloth. It was hard to look away from this one, though. From the veil on the slave’s head, dark as the space between stars and hanging in pleats, to the shackle-style collar around a slender neck, to which the chain was fastened, to the defined muscles in the man’s back and where his ass was kept barely-concealed by bright green silks, he was a work of art.

No wonder there were so many rumors circling Boba Fett, the usurper king of Tatooine and what was formerly known as Hutt Space.

At least, the dignitary thought, Fett’s bodyman wasn’t around. He’d heard tales that Fett had managed to be owed a debt by the most fierce Mandalorian in the galaxy, one who wielded an ancient weapon, who wore impenetrable armor, and under whose gaze, nothing went unnoticed. His eyes strayed to the whore again as Fett’s fingers clenched in the veil, pulling it up just enough to see the bare shadow of hair along the nape of his neck.

Show finished, the whore readjusted himself and draped himself between Fett’s knees, veiled head coming to rest on one bent knee, that silver chain clinking daintily against a plate of leg armor. The dignitary babbled a bit, now nervous that the attention was quite obviously back on himself, and tried to sum up what he was asking for.

The silence in the palace was deafening. Once, there were schmoozers and dancers and singers and bands flooded into every room, trying to take advantage of Jabba the Hutt’s general laziness, and the late Bib Fortuna’s insipid incompetence. Now, there was no music, no dancing distractions. The courtiers here were advisors and dispatches, spies and mercenary fighters, bounty hunters and traitors. Boba Fett kept his enemies close, but none as much as the slave.

Who was he? Even in the small talk the dignitary had made with the others, he couldn’t get a response, all of them saying the same thing.

_ Fett doesn’t talk about him. And he doesn’t talk at all. _

_ He calls him princess sometimes. Any missing royals out there? _

_ Are you going to be the one that tells them their princess is a throne-whore? _

He felt the three sets of eyes on him from the throne. Those of Fett, the veiled pair from the slave, and the sharp ones from Fennec Shand, Imperial traitor and sharpshooter. The rumors were that she and Fett owed one another debts, and chose to rule together to pay them off. Did she know who the slave was?

Finally, Fett spoke, his voice modulated from the helmet. “You’ll get half of what you need now, the other half when my foremen ensure you’re doing as promised.” He sounded almost bored.

The dignitary thanked him, bowing rapidly, before leaving to speak with one of the foremen. He spared the throne another glance before he slipped around a corner and out of sight.

Fett spoke again. “I’m done playing court today. Out.” He said something else, in a language no one else understood, before standing. The slave got to his knees, before waiting for a command. “Up, princess.”

The slave stood, and walked behind Fett as they retired to his rooms.

Things still smelled of Hutt in some places around the palace, but not in the kings chambers, that was certain. It smelled like someplace by an ocean, salty and fresh. There was an undercurrent of vanilla and sweet fruit, which seemed to be favorites of the king. Next to the humongous bed was a bolted-down loop of durasteel, and it was there that he attached the end of the beskar chain.

With the doors closed, the veil came off, revealing a grinning Din Djarin. Fett couldn’t help stroking a thumb over that smile, before removing his helmet. “Think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I knew you’d be composed,” the slave said with a shrug. “You were bored, in any case.”

Fett huffed a laugh and shed his daytime armor. With no bounties to chase and only decisions to be made, he admitted it needed a bit of cleanup for appearance purposes. It gleamed where it had been matte, and the dents and scratches had been buffed and repaired to perfection.

Another set of gleaming armor sat in a closet nearby, ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice. But for now, that notice was far in the future, and they had nothing but time.

Fett pressed a kiss to Din’s forehead, allowing some affection in the vulnerable moments of undress they shared. It was a balancing act they’d taken a while to get down, the line between despair and enjoyment a thin one, and always moving for Din.

Boba Fett was nothing if not adaptable.

* * *

The New Republic liaison was waiting her turn to speak with the king. The advisor reporting on the state of the Mos Espa dignitary’s promises was well into his own monologue, which made everyone tune him out as one. The liaison had her attention elsewhere, however. Specifically, it was on the man standing just behind the king. They wore gleaming armor over what was probably a shoddy flight suit. The cape on the man’s back covered the side of his body, concealing not the weapon on his hip, but a different weapon that would have caused quite a stir, had she seen it.

She knew she was being watched. The thing about Mandalorian armor was that it was intimidating on its own. The man beneath the helmet, however, brought another layer of intimidation to the table. And he hadn’t looked away from the liaison for over a half-hour.

She swallowed a little, nervousness chilling her blood momentarily. The advisor finished his speech, and the floor was hers.

It was quite obvious now that all eyes were on her, but it wasn’t as comforting a thought as she would’ve hoped. The Mandalorian at the king’s shoulder leaned down, and murmured something in the king’s ear, too low to be picked up by the voice modulator in the helmet, but loud enough for the king to hear.

“You’re from the New Republic,” the king said, surprising her from her worrying.

“Yes, I am,” she said, a little lost on how to address the man. Of course, everyone in the New Republic had heard Boba Fett had taken the Hutt throne on Tatooine, but seeing it was a bit baffling. “I’m a delegate to speak with you about any cooperation moving forward—”

“The terms of my cooperation begin and end with yours. New Republic or not, do not be mistaken. You are here out of my own goodwill. Do not think you can traipse through my systems without my knowing. Do not think you can trade here without my knowing. I don’t care who you answer to.” His voice was steady, aloof, almost tired of diplomacy.

It was very clear to the liaison that there would be no reasoning with the man, or any of his courtiers. Especially not the hawk at his shoulder, gleaming and deadly. The liaison counted her blessings, and weighed her options. “I understand. Is there any message you wish to send to my superiors?”

Boba Fett laughed, and fear struck through every heart beating in the throne room. Every heart save two.

“A message,” he said again, with another chuckle. “We’ll see how well you can keep your end of the bargain, and  _ then _ we’ll talk about messages. You’re dismissed.”

The liaison practically held her breath as she rushed back to her ship, and didn’t look back once.

* * *

The residents of Tatooine were used to all sorts of misfits tossed down the garbage chute from all corners of the galaxy. Some used to say that through a sandstorm, no one could see your past, and that held mostly true.

There was another saying out here, however.

If you see a Mandalorian, you bow in thanks.

Or else.

The usurper king on the throne had denounced and abolished all slavery on the planet, and funded moisture crops and food production in the poorer sectors. He brought education and travel to the masses. The loyalty he got in return was more than was inspired by the Empire, and the Rebellion. Tatooine sat comfortably in Boba Fett’s fist.

There was the issue of the slave, though.

No one dared speak of the slave unless they were truly, certifiably alone. It was said that there were spy networks within Fett’s spy networks, and you never knew who to trust. Trust the man who freed the planet of its chains, but still held onto one man by another? If they weren’t so sure they’d be vaporized for asking, they would have come to him about it sooner.

The slave seemed to be having a good time, though. He was sprawled on Fett’s lap, legs slung over the far arm of the throne and veiled head thrown back. He did not make a sound, but his fingers twitched in excitement as Fett worked him over. It was one of the rare times the king allowed for music, even if it was just enough to cover the squelching sounds of Fett’s fingers inside the slave.

He was up to four, now, and teasing a thumb along the stretched rim. Fett was a little disappointed he couldn’t hear his princess moan and whine for him, but those noises were meant only for him, and only in their bedroom. “There you go, princess. More?”

A shake of the head, veil flapping.

“Pity.”

The courtiers watched as Fett drove his fingers in, curling and brushing his knuckles over a spot inside that made his legs kick reflexively. They tried their best not to watch too openly, but from what they could tell, the slave was having a very good time.

Suddenly, the slave curled up tight, burying his face in the king’s neck, just below the bottom of his helmet. His chest, adorned with glittering jewels and chains, piercings through his nipples and navel, long tattooed lines made sharper through sweat and blood rush, heaved and with it, came a soft jangle of the hardware on it.

Fett didn’t let up, leaving no time for the slave to catch his breath before he worked his fingers deeper, faster, harder. He knew his slave liked this, and there was no way he was letting up until he heard that soft whine of a moan that meant he’d come untouched.

By now some of the more prudish courtiers had left the throne room, and the others that remained had a lewd look about them. The pair on the throne paid them no mind, they had other goals. All at once, the slave’s body seized up and there came the soft noise, that pleasure and disbelief wrapped into one strained syllable.

When Fett had enough of his toy, he directed him to go back up to the room. “I’ll deal with you later, princess,” Fett said. Anyone who knew him would know there was no short amount of affection in his tone, but by all accounts, no one knew him.

Save two.

* * *

The second time the Mos Espa dignitary came to Fett’s palace, he was at least prepared for the sex show.

Which was probably why, when faced with that he actually saw, he nearly fainted.

Boba Fett was standing, for once, a blaster in hand, and looking quite ticked off. In the throne, the veiled slave sat prettily, silks all wrapped around lithe, muscled legs and even more jewelry dripping from every part of him. The dignitary noticed that he had a new anklet on.

This was a very peculiar situation.

Fett would let his whore sit on the throne like he owned it? The mute whore who, last time, was too busy choking on cock to speak? Fett’s anger seemed to be directed elsewhere, though. The dignitary had not seen a single act of violence from the man, but his reputation greatly preceded him in this case.

No, it looked like he was glaring…

...beneath the dignitary’s feet.

The N’Hutte Rancor was long dead, but there was clearly some kind of scuffle happening beneath the grated floor. The dignitary moved slightly off his mark to get a better look. Two humans were locked in battle, fistfighting below. “What—?”

The utter confusion on his tongue brought the attention back to the dignitary.

“Speak. Your matters are less important than mine,” Fett snapped, his modulator crackling in a way that meant it wasn’t used to such a tone.

The dignitary almost vomited out of fear, but managed to relay that his efforts in Mos Espa were thorough and finished. All that was left was…

“Your payment will be sent to you tomorrow. Leave.”

Dismissed, the dignitary spared one more glance at the slave on the Fett throne, and dashed.

* * *

“Princess, why don’t you sleep?” Fett groaned, the early morning light too harsh by far. Din was on the far side of their bedchamber, almost pacing. He had that haunted, worried look in his eye that told Fett he’d been awake for hours.

“Can’t,” Din said, voice rough from disuse. “I just. What if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll hear about it. You’ll feel it and know it. Besides, we’ve had ears to the ground at the temple since the day the kid got there.” Fett sat up, knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep now. “Sit with me.”

Din sighed and came over. He had to dress in his slave garb even here, in case someone saw. He didn’t mind the cold, and especially not when Fett’s gaze lit up his bones like a forge.

“Why don’t we get away for a bit. There’s a sex club in this sector we could take a trip to.”

“I don’t want to visit a sex club.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“...”

“Not there. You know we can’t.”

“Then just...make me forget why, for awhile.”

“I can do that, princess.”

* * *

Din’s impaired vision in the veil was worse than in the helmet, but at least things didn’t echo in that tinny way the beskar helmet did. He could only hear his breath, shuddering and gasping, and the slap of skin against skin.

The king liked to take his consort whenever he wanted. They were bound by no bed, and no rules of modesty. Their love was fierce and free, and they would not hide it.

This was the Way, after all. Their Way, that is.

Din almost squeaked out a noise when Fett managed to hit  _ just _ that right spot in him. As it was, he was seeing stars behind his eyelids, and his blood sung a needy song of feral romance. He held onto the arm of the throne that much tighter, though in their position there was no way for him to fall off.

Fett’s hands were bereft of their usual gloves, and his short fingernails dug deep red lines above the smallest part of his waist. Cock-drunk and fucked half-way into the next cycle, Din had boiled down to a persona completely reliant on his king.

Like this, he was a princess.

“That’s right, beautiful, open up for me,” Fett groaned. Din forced himself to relax, but his body was fighting it, fighting the claiming and marking with every thrust. He gritted his teeth and tried to channel his frustration away, but it only manifested in a tighter clutch around Fett’s cock.

_ Fuck, I can feel him in my  _ throat.

Din took in another shaky breath, and at that moment, one of Fett’s hands came down on the back of his neck. Din’s blood ran cold all at once, knowing the dangerous points Fett had his fingers covering. Mandalorians never liked close combat, preferring ranged weaponry and stealth over knife-fights, but there were a few tricks up their sleeves they kept selfishly guarded. The Grip was one of them. Were Fett to squeeze just a little, Din’s life would be over. He’d be dead before his head hit the seat of the throne.

One small, shrill noise left the back of his throat, soft enough for only Fett to hear. The king chuckled. “I thought I told you to open up for me. Or do I need to follow through on my threat?” He didn’t even sound particularly out of breath.

Din nodded carefully, and let his body melt, remembering all the wicked things Fett has done to it. This threat, this little bit of danger, it thrilled Din to no end. Like a chance to spit in the face of death, a chance to walk along the razor’s edge barefoot and come out alive. He almost moaned at the pure rush of adrenaline.

“That’s better. Good, princess. You always are so good to me, in the end.” The hand didn’t move, but Fett’s hips did, and with it, Din was pressed just a little more into the Grip. The points of light through the veil blurred and sparkled at the lack of oxygen, and he rode this high like a cresting wave promising to swallow him whole.

Fett found his release, filling up his little cock-slave for the third time that day. The plug, another toy for them made of beskar, replaced his cock, and he moved the skirts back into place around Din’s ass. Not a drop had spilled.

The New Republic liaison put in for a transfer of duties while still meeting with Fett that afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/)


End file.
